Answers
by ash the airbender
Summary: Sherlock has all the answers. Just not all the time. (Johnlock)


**Answers**

_A/N: So many ideas, so little time. Here's a plot bunny that spawned in my head the other day. I just love when John does… things. Read on and please review, you lovely people, you. And on a less important sidenote, I cannot get the subscript to work on this website, so all you fellow chemistry nerds, bear with me. (You'll see what I mean, if you know anything about chemical formulas.)_

Sherlock Holmes is brilliant. John will be the first one to tell you that. But genius though he is, Sherlock has his weaknesses.

John happens to know most of them. He happens to _be_ most of them.

He was acting particularly insufferable that day. That is John's excuse. They just wrapped up a case; Sherlock called Lestrade an idiot twice, Donovan four times, and Anderson an admittedly well-deserved thirteen times.

He didn't call John an idiot. John has proven otherwise. (He definitely isn't an idiot in bed.)

Even if none of Sherlock's annoyance is targeted toward him, John still had to put up with Sherlock's condescending attitude all day, and he is basically sick of it.

And that's how they got to where they are, snogging their way toward John's room (they don't ever use Sherlock's room, simply out of consideration for Mrs. Hudson, and John's desire that their landlady not overhear their louder and more intimate activities). The cab ride home is a torturous one for both of them; they haven't had sex since the case really took off, there hadn't been time, and by the time they turned the criminal into Lestrade they were _aching_ for each other like two lovers straight out of poetry.

Sherlock is still going on about how obvious the case really was and the police are being useless as always and also the cab driver took the wrong route home, it would've been faster to go the other way but Sherlock didn't say anything because John was _distracting_ him with his infernal _murmuring_ about what he was planning to _do_ to him when they got home and doesn't he know he shouldn't say things like that to Sherlock in public if he won't let Sherlock shove him up against a wall right there and then and have his way with him.

John kisses Sherlock quiet when they reach his room, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's mile-a-minute rant about how everyone does everything wrong because they're stupid, incapable idiots.

"You're infuriating," John says, and he means it, but he's smiling. Sherlock is unperturbed.

"Everyone else is infuriating," Sherlock counters. "I happen to be _right_."

John rolls his eyes. "You just have all the answers, don't you?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to claim I could answer _any_ question, but yes, more than most," Sherlock claims, not-at-all modestly. John's got his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and he grins wickedly.

"We'll see about that."

He tackles Sherlock into the bed, and before Sherlock can catch his breath, asks him, "What's the chemical formula of paracetamol?" It was a question related to the case, but still Sherlock fumbles around for an answer at first because John has caught him off guard. John doesn't give him a chance to finish before snogging the living daylights out of him, fingers buried in his curls and John's other hand firmly on Sherlock's arse.

They break away. Sherlock gasps in air. "Can you repeat the question?" He's calm but ruffled. John's grin is wide and his breathing is heavy.

"Name every state in America that starts with a vowel."

Once again, before Sherlock can answer, John pries his mouth open and kisses him, tongues hot and wet and slippery and moving as if to map each other from the inside. Sherlock moans and flips John over, switching their positions so he can feel John writhing beneath him in a way he knows is specifically designed to distract him.

"Aangh," is all Sherlock manages, and John is pretty sure that's not a state in America.

"Who wrote _A Tale of Two Cities_?" John asks tauntingly as Sherlock nips possessive marks all over John's neck and jaw and shoulders, fumbling with John's shirt to get it over his head without having to break contact. He ends up straddling John, nearly ripping the shirt off of John and throwing it aside as if it did him a personal offence.

"Ch-Char—" Sherlock begins, but then John bucks his hips up and he breaks off into a loud moan and sloppily tries to recapture John's mouth and unbutton his trousers at the same time.

"Y-you're distracting me," Sherlock says between moans, allowing John to help him remove his own clothes until their both wearing only their pants, cloth rubbing against cloth and it probably isn't going to stay that way for long.

"D'you want me to stop?" John asks with a voice like whiskey that Sherlock wants to drown himself in.

"You'd better not," Sherlock threatens, and he leans down and bites John's neck and John lets out what could be a gasp or a groan or an exclamation of pain or all three at once. "But I could answer if you… nngh… weren't interrupting me—agh!"

"Where do we live, Sherlock?"

It's a simple answer, but John is rolling his hips beneath him and Sherlock can't think straight and he knows it's an address that's got a number in it but that's all that comes to mind, his brain is too full of John, John, John, John, John.

"I-I don't know." When did they both lose their pants? Sherlock wasn't aware of it happening, but they're sliding against each other now, skin-on-skin, and it's friction and heat and noise and _John_ and Sherlock's just about lost it – "What's your name?" "I don't know. Yours is John." – when John does something particularly skillful with his mouth and Sherlock's gone, utterly derailed, because John is doing John-things with his John-body and Sherlock only knows how to form four letters into one word and it's _John, John, John_.

And afterward they're panting and sweating and Sherlock feels like his skin is buzzing all over, like he's been struck by lightning, like he's been electrified, and all at once he gasps out:

"C8H9NO2, Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Utah, Charles Dickens, 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes, don't _ever_ do that to me again, John." He lets out a deep breath and visibly relaxes. John laughs.

"I was under the impression that you liked what I just did," he says smugly.

"Don't play coy, John, it suits you far too well." He slams his mouth against John's and they roll over for a much less distracted shag this time around.


End file.
